Uncharted Skies
by Wing Pikepaw
Summary: When young Messerschmitt pilot Heindrich Zöhler was assigned by the S.S. to track down the children of a British soldier, he had no idea that it involved stepping into a different world—and becoming caught up in the conflict his charges bring on...
1. Enemy Ground

Uncharted Skies

By Wing Pikepaw

_A/N: Please see the bottom for my necessary rant, which concerns thanks and a note to my beloved readers. No sense putting it up here when you've a story to read! ;)_

**Chapter 1**

**Enemy Ground**

I glanced once more up at the sprawling English mansion, taking note of the beautiful stained glass windows. As my gaze traveled along their expanse in the rough brown stone, I noticed one was broken, shattered as if some rock—or a ball—had been hurled through it. Yes, this was most definitely where one would find children: the information had not been wrong. Still, apprehension gripped me a little tighter as I opened the front gates and slowly made my way up to the door, muttering under my breath the words I had prepared in order to gain access to the Pevensie children.

Their father, Jack Pevensie, a British soldier, was under official investigation by the S.S., for what reason even I didn't know, and I had been selected at random from other English-speaking soldiers in my regiment to take his children into custody. They had been evacuated from London because of the air raids, many of which I had escorted the bombers into as part of the fighter squadron, and were now living in this place with an old professor, his housekeeper, and three other servants. I had been chosen because I spoke English well, with almost no trace of an accent, and though I was dedicated to my country I would not have been able to serve in the S.S. because I had recently stopped growing at five foot ten and had brown hair, not blond. Still, I had jumped at this chance to both be put in favor for a possible promotion and, in truth, we had been on leave far too long for my liking. This assignment would be a break in the monotony, even if it was only transporting children.

The door was only a few steps away now. Once more, I went over my lines.

"Hello. My name ist—_is_—Henry Matthews. I haff—have, _have_—come from London from Mrs. Helen Pevensie vith a message for her children." For good measure, I added in a furiously muttered undertone, "I am certainly not Heindrich Zöhler, _Luftwaffe_ lieutenant und one who has flown der over London alongside der bombers and is trying to take Jack Pevensie's children to Germany, _nein_. You must be mistaken."

Angrily, I shook my head. English was an infuriatingly complicated language! Pronouncing all _w_'s with a "wuh" sound, not a "v"…it was ever so strange. But if I did not get it right now, my cover would be blown, and all would be lost. I tried not to think about what that involved as I summoned my courage and knocked three times. Each thud reverberated about the house within.

After about a minute, the oaken door swung wide, and a harassed looking woman with her gray hair in a tight bun stepped into view from behind it. After eyeing me suspiciously for a few moments, she asked crisply in an accent I recognized as Scottish, "Well then, wot d'ye want, sirrah?"

I took off my hat respectfully. "Madam, my name is Henry Matthews, and I've traveled from London with a message for Mrs. Helen Pevensie's children."

She frowned. "Could ye nae ha' sent a telegraph? What d'ye think all that nonsense is for, young man?"

"I believe Mrs. Pevensie intended for me to escort her children home," I said quietly, finally meeting her eyes as I attempted to stress the importance of this. "I must speak with the children's official caregiver about this—unless, of course, I address her?" Obviously, I knew she was one of the professor's staff as he was unmarried, but it was imperative that I kept up the pretense that I knew nothing.

The woman snorted scornfully. "No, 'ye address' 'is housekeeper, Mrs. Macready. Follow me."

Without another word, she turned and led me up the grand staircase in the main foyer, not looking back to make sure I was following, which I was. However, I got the impression she was listening carefully to my every movement, making sure I did not set a foot wrong. I stifled a grin behind one hand as I climbed after her.

We passed through a virtual maze of halls, rooms, and doors, all leading in a confusing spiral upwards. It was a wonder Mrs. Macready could have memorized the route at all, or know where the professor could be now in this gigantic house. At first, I pretended to admire the strange artifacts that covered the walls and filled the many different rooms, but my exclamations soon petered out since I received no reply from my guide.

After a long set of unusually barren stairs, we reached a hallway where a tall man dressed in a slightly old-fashioned suit was reaching for a doorknob. At the sound of footsteps, however, he turned, revealing an eccentric head of bristling white hair and mildly curious eyes peering through small spectacles. I almost gave a startled laugh at the sight of him, but of course I could not.

Mrs. Macready introduced me and my purpose, then abruptly turned and left myself and the professor staring at each other. An uncomfortable silence reigned for a few moments. Finally—

"Perhaps you'd best fetch the children, Mr. Matthews. They should be present to discuss this matter."

"Uh…certainly, sir," I stammered. "Vhere might I find them?"

I froze. Damn! I had slipped up, mispronounced a single letter with the simple rasp of a "v", let down my country, the glory of the Reich, failed utterly—

But had he noticed? Already he was speaking again, gesturing calmly to the door that he stood by and winking once in a peculiar manner, as if trying to communicate something beyond what he was saying. "I believe they're playing in the old wardrobe again. If you'd like to bring them down, I shall get a pot of tea started in my office."

Nodding as I breathed an internal sigh of relief, admonishing myself silently—I no longer trusted myself to speak—I slipped past him and opened the door, entering a room completely bare except for a huge wooden wardrobe that dominated an entire wall. I stopped, fascinated by the intricate carvings in its face. It was like nothing I had ever seen before, ruggedly beautiful yet eerily…drawing. As if possessed by some unseen force, I took a step forward, finding myself been propelled towards the wardrobe.

When I reached the door, which was slightly ajar, I stopped, tracing my hand lightly over the worn, polished surface. Each coarse brush of wood against my palm somehow thrilled me, urging me onwards. Slowly, I reached forward and gently pulled the door slightly ajar.

"Peter?" I said softly, recalling the names I had been given. "Susan? Edmund?" Unsure of how to pronounce the last name, which was spelled L-U-C-Y, I stopped, waiting for a response.

None came. Frowning—how big could the wardrobe be that they did not hear me? —I stepped up into the darkness of the structure. Warm fur coats brushed my face, and I wrinkled my nose at the scent of mothballs. "I ha_v_e a message from your mother!" I called, slightly louder this time, paying careful attention to the word "have". The same unnerving silent answered me.

I stepped forward, feeling around in the coats for some sign of a child. The fur was all around me, and I struggled to wade through it. Suddenly, I felt pressure at my ankle as one of the coats was knocked off its hanger, and before I knew it I had fallen flat on my face!

Sharp cold wetness invaded my skin. With a start, I sat upright, swearing in German, flailing around to untangle myself from the garments that had fallen with me. "What the hell-?" I snarled in my native language, momentarily forgetting my guise as I scooped up a handful of the loose matter on the ground and held it up to my face.

White—cold—wet—why, this was _snow_! Snow! In a wardrobe in summer! Nonplussed, I looked up and promptly received a faceful of the stuff as a heavy tree branch gave up its burden. Wait. _Tree branch?_ What was going on here?

I stood shakily and blinked the last of the snow out of my eyes to find my surroundings were a forest. Somehow, I had stepped into a wood in winter, this much I was sure of. After all, I couldn't possibly be dreaming with the wind whipping painful fragments of ice against my exposed skin. But how on earth was this possible?

A shout interrupted my frantic thought process, and I leapt about a foot in the air. Turning, one hand going to the _Luger_ pistol within my jacket, I looked around wildly for the cause of the noise.

My gun was halfway out of its hidden pocket when a small girl stepped out from behind a copse of pines. Several hands reached out to grab her, but she jumped out of reach, peering at me inquisitively as she approached. Hurriedly, I holstered my weapon and put my hands behind my back.

After several moments of silence, she spoke, perfect British accent setting me wondering if this was one of the children I had come for.

"Hello, sir," she said, holding forth a tentative hand as if to shake mine. "I'm Lucy Pevensie. Did you…did you just come in too?"

An exasperated groan of "Lu!" came from behind the trees, and three other children stepped out, confirming my wonderings. The tallest, a boy who seemed to be several years younger than myself, looked almost Aryan with his blond hair, while the elder of his sisters, who had darker features, grabbed his hand at the shock of seeing me.

"Yes, I—" I began, but the oldest boy cut me off, darting forward and dragging his sister back as if afraid I might strike her. He stared at me with narrowed blue eyes that burned like accusing sparks.

"You were speaking German," he said, not so much questioning me as making a statement.

Wonderful. I was _such_ an idiot. But how could I have possibly guessed a curse slipped out in the shock of the moment would harm me?

"Yes," chirped the littlest girl, stepping forward again. She was bold, I gave her that, but she was also quite dim if she wasn't figuring this out as her brother and sister were. Then again, she could be no older than nine, so it was a forgivable mistake. "What did that mean?"

What could I say to that? Obviously these three didn't speak a word of my language—otherwise they'd have covered the little one's ears, as what I had said was not exactly polite conversation. I could lie, I could, but my mind was still whirling, still attempting to process this phenomenon. I was truly unsure of what to say. Should I deliver the message as if this was all some silly game they were playing, or should I inquire as to what was going on? The latter sounded evasive and the former simply ridiculous.

"I—I was speaking German," I confirmed, nodding. "I was raised in Germany before the war, and it was my first language." Though this would have never granted me amnesty if I had been truly caught by adults in this country, perhaps it would work for the children.

The oldest clearly was not fooled, or at the very least suspicious. He continued to glare at me, and kept a protective hand on his younger sister's shoulder. _Poor boy,_ I observed with little compassion, not really caring so much as observing, _he's trying to be his father for them all. _"You are Peter, yes?" I guessed, gesturing at him, meeting his gaze levelly.

"How do you know my name?" he asked slowly, staring now a bit confusedly at me.

"I came…I came from London. Your mother has a message for you."

How I was able to calmly go through my plan standing in those winter woods, I was not quite sure. Still, I kept a very straight face and lied easily through my teeth, expression never changing as I attempted to keep up a civilian-type slouch. It was in fact much harder than I had originally thought it would have been—military discipline, it seemed, had finally taken a hold of me.

"Mum!" the talkative little girl exclaimed. L-U-C-Y, I guessed. "What did she say, Mr.—I'm afraid I don't know your name…?"

"We don't want his name, Lu," Peter said almost harshly, gripping her shoulder tightly. "We want to know why he's here."

"But I have just told you," I pointed out. "My name, anyhow, is Mr. Matthews. Your mother Helen sent me to bring you home. The bombing has nearly stopped." I almost smiled. It had better not have: I expected to be flying again soon after today.

The girl I presumed to be Susan finally spoke, tones even and practical. "You're awfully calm for someone who's just stumbled into a different world," she observed wryly, raising an eyebrow at me.

I shrugged, not letting on how bewildered and confused I actually was. The fact that she had said it aloud seemed to clarify that it was indeed an actual occurrence, not a dream or hallucination, and that in itself terrified me. It was strange—since I had joined the _Luftwaffe_, ideas that used to frighten me when I had lived on my parents' farm—being shot at, crashing my plane, not remembering proper protocol for the different officer ranks—were now some distant past. Not much made me truly scared anymore, but this unknown; this void…there was no Reich here. No _Führer_ to look up to, no orders to follow but the printed ones I had received several days ago, no comrades, no fellow Germans…here, I was alone.

"I assumed there was an explanation for this," I stated lamely. "What is this place?"

"Narnia," Lucy informed me, but now her older brother put his hand over her mouth and stepped forward as if in a threatening manner.

"Go back to where you came from, whoever you are," Peter told me tightly, scanning my face. "I don't believe this business about Mum and a message: you can leave. We're looking for our brother."

It struck me belatedly that the other boy, Edmund, was not there. I had not given him any thought. Suddenly anxious, for the S.S. wanted four children, not three, I said quickly, "Where is he?"

Peter hesitated, then appeared about to speak, but suddenly a knee-high, darkly furred animal lumbered into the very clearing in which we were standing. It was a beaver, interestingly enough. Bizarre. A beaver. Didn't they hibernate in winter?

A rough, gravelly, English-accented voice that was not at all familiar and sounded out of breath suddenly filled the air, much to my surprise. "No sign of 'im over the ridge, 'umans—"

The voice stopped suddenly, and the beaver took a pace back, having risen onto its back legs in an eerily human gesture. I blinked several times, rubbing my eyes. But this _had_ to be some sort of dream. I could have sworn that it was indeed that same beaver that had just opened its mouth and moved it exactly in time to the voice. Had spoken. Impossible, of course…or was it? Nothing seemed impossible here, wherever here was. Narnia, I supposed. It didn't sound English, nor German: it was completely alien-sounding. Was the older girl, Susan, right? Had we in fact stepped into a real world?

"Blimey," the beaver whispered—no, didn't whisper, some other human did, though the beaver certainly appeared to be speaking. Obviously, this was some sort of trick. A very clever one, no doubt, but a trick nonetheless. "Another one? Another Son of Adam in a single day? Can't be. Wot-? How-?"

Curiously, the animal approached me on his hind legs, coming so close I could catch a strange flash of—was it _intelligence_?—in his small bright eyes. The dark nose quivered, the flat tail stretched out slightly as he sniffed. I felt horribly exposed, as if some dog was checking for weaponry, and cautiously I took a step back myself.

"Smells like trouble, this one," announced the beaver. "Smells like metal and blood, 'e does."

Stupid animal. I wanted desperately to put a bullet between the abomination's eyes, but restrained myself: it was necessary to carry on with this deception as long as I could until I was able to get them back into the real world. Pulling out a pistol would not help with pretenses.

All three children stared at me, suddenly looking afraid at the beaver's analysis. I didn't notice, being too preoccupied with the talking animal. "You…you can speak?" I stammered, feeling foolish and overwhelmed.

The beaver snorted. "'Course I can. Whaddya think I'm doing, a darnce fer yore h'entertainment?" Choosing, apparently, to ignore me, he turned to face his three companions. "Come on, then. We'd best start off fer the Stone Table now—them wolves is prolly still sniffin' around fer us. Quietly now."

"But what about Mr. Matthews?" Lucy asked. For a moment, I wondered who that was before remembering my English disguise.

Peter glanced at me. "We don't need him. He can go back."

"Your brother is missing," I cut in sharply. "Your mother put me in charge of you all—the _four_ of you. I must come and help you find him. I cannot return without him."

At Susan's signal, the three retreated and held a small council. I watched warily at first, though my eyes began straying around the darkening woods. So curious that it was winter here while summer reigned outside the wardrobe. Remembering this, I bent down to ask the beaver, forcing myself to do so before my good sense told me to ignore the hideous thing.

"Is it always winter here, then?" I inquired, keeping my eyes on the children.

Eyeing me mistrustfully, the beaver finally nodded once.

"Why?"

"There's a spell wot was put on Narnia a hundred years ago by the White Witch," he (She? It?) said shortly. "She crowned 'erself queen of the land…but that's changin' now."

"And why is that?" I asked, but he refused to tell me, instead giving a vague shrug. With a sigh, I stood again to consider this information, shivering slightly as a blast of cold wind rattled the iced trees high above. The beaver glanced once at me and trundled off, muttering something about me being warmer, leaving the children and me alone in the clearing. Drawing my flimsy jacket tighter about myself and wishing for a warm uniform or a flight suit, which were specially insulated, I waited, half-hoping I would wake up from whatever twisted dream this was if I closed my eyes.

* * *

Deep within the shadows, a pair of intelligent yellow eyes flashed once and retreated deeper into the forest. Their owner, a big, powerfully built timber wolf by the name of Ranaz, licked his long ivory teeth slowly as his mind recalled the scent of the strange new human. It was a hard concept to grasp, the presence of this newcomer: in a few short days, the existence of the human race had been proved and the supposed chosen four had come forth. Even now, one shivered in the darkness of his mistress's dungeons while the other three were merely yards away, just begging to be captured. 

But now there was a complication. There was a stranger, an adult human in the lands who had apparently followed the children from the world of men into Narnia. Whether they were allies or enemies Ranaz could not tell—words had been exchanged, but the oldest male of the human pups reeked of mistrust, stale fear, and hostility and was now arguing vehemently with his siblings about the other of their race.

Sparing one curious look back at the four humans and the beaver, for his time to linger was over, Ranaz sprinted off despite his exhaustion. There was a report to be made. Maugrim would know what to tell Her Majesty, the White Witch about the newcomer.

* * *

_A/N (2): Please do review and give me your honest opinion! I do hope we'll have a few people who enjoy the story. Updates are based on your reviews. ((snicker)) No pressure for nice ones, though…_

_I suppose I have several people to thank. _(!) _No disclaimer, as usual, see my bio if you'd like to sue me, though I do also have several things to say. So, ahem, first, my thanks go to:_

_-My dad for the historical info—any errors here are mine. Thanks also for the suggestion about having Heindrich crash his plane over England, an idea I liked better than the one I came up with but was reluctant to rewrite the first five pages. Lazy child that I am._

_-Johannes Steinhoff for writing his book _Messerschmitts Over Sicily_, from which I learned much about the Luftwaffe and WWII aerial combat, and also for providing a real-life pilot (himself) to base Heindrich off of. Great book too._

_-Enya, the artists who put the Narnia soundtrack together, and Led Zeppelin. (WOOT!) I would have never gotten through Chapter 1 without the Immigrant Song, Black Dog, Stairway to Heaven, Wunderkind, The Blitz 1940, (heheh) and…erm…not sure about the name of that Enya song, it's a burned disc. Track 11 of Amarantine. How this strange mixture came to be, I am still unsure…_

_I want to assure everyone that I, despite the fact that this story is written in the first person from a Nazi's perspective, I am in NO WAY a neo-Nazi, sympathetic towards Nazis/Hitler, or approving of anything done by them. I despise Hitler and what he did one hundred percent, and I am shocked and horrified by what happened during the Holocaust. I have absolutely no desire to become a Nazi, nor do I understand why anyone would want to._

_I am not going to make excuses for my character, however. I shall inform everyone right now that it was very difficult for me to take the Nazi point of view in my writings. Though Heindrich is rarely involved with Hitler and, since he was too old to have joined Hitler Youth, is not full of adoration for the man, he nonetheless is fighting under him. All opinions made here are his, not mine: I simply wrote down what I thought someone in his position would feel. Just want everyone to have that clearly imprinted in his or her brains._

_Cheers, all!_


	2. Selective Knowledge

**Chapter 2 **

**Selective Knowledge**

The children had finally agreed to allow me to come along, partially because I was an adult, I supposed, and, as Lucy confided in me, Peter didn't like carrying her. Clearly, this was meant to be a hint, so with a sigh I had swung her onto my back and proceeded to give the longest piggyback ride in the history of the Reich, Third or otherwise. Thank heavens drill sergeants hadn't heard of this exercise: our armies would collapse with broken backs on the first step of a campaign if so. And so began our march to the Stone Table, where someone or something called Aslan, as I had gathered from the children's whispered discussion with the beaver and his wife (_Mr._ and _Mrs. _Beaver, of all titles!), could possibly help get Edmund back. I had gathered that he had been captured, but when I asked by whom I received no answer, much to my frustration.

As we progressed across the sunny yet cold plains, having spent the night in a small den the beavers had found in the side of a riverbank, I still had a sense of disconcertment I simply could not shake away. The idea of being in a different world was just so difficult to grasp and accept—at least I had finally decided that I wasn't dreaming. And if this wasn't a dream, than the information provided to me was all I had by way of reality, and so I gathered it as a starving person might scoop up a dropped scrap of bread. It was my reality, this knowledge. It was also extremely patchy.

Neither of the older children spoke much to me after Lucy fell asleep on my back, instead conversing quietly with the beavers and pointedly ignoring me. They were clearly as suspicious of me as their younger sister thought I was harmless. I couldn't blame them: though they obviously had no programs such as Hitler Youth to heighten mistrust of those not British, they were instinctively wary of anything German with good reason. They'd seen the bombings and they know who had done them, had seen the destruction and thought with hatred of my people. Idly, I wondered if the one of the countless bombers I'd escorted across the Channel and over London had wrecked a building near their homes, a place they'd seen. I stared at the back of Peter's head as I thought this. _You should be afraid of me, boy,_ I thought almost angrily, startling myself. _You saw what we could do. Were you afraid of what you could not fight?_

Instantly, I buried these thoughts. Foolish, foolish ideas—what was my unconscious mind suggesting? That I challenge the boy? That I _make_ him stop suspecting me? Impossible, of course. I couldn't get inside Peter's head, however much I would like to, and I couldn't convince him that I was a true Englishman without completely blowing my cover. Someone else really should have been chosen for this assignment: I really wasn't much of an actor. I could fly, though. Best leave fetching children to the Gestapo or one of the more useless idiots in my squadron, ones who would actually be good at this sort of thing. I was more skillful as a pilot: if I did say so myself, I was pretty good, with eighty-six kills to my record.

As we trudged through wind-sculpted snow banks, Susan dropped back from the main group to walk beside me. Surprised, I said nothing besides a brief smile in her direction, which she did not return, instead saying quietly, "I can carry her, if you like."

"No, I'm fine," I enunciated carefully, laying on the British accent thickly to cover any pronunciation mistakes I made. "But thank you. Are we nearing the river, do you know?"

The dark-haired girl nodded. "The beavers say a few miles more."

"How long do they think it'll take to get to the Stone Table from there?" I asked casually. If I were late back to my outpost with the children…what would I say? I was trapped in a magical world trying to find the younger brother? Somehow, I doubted my captain would nod and award me the Iron Cross.

"Why?" she asked, glancing at me. "You don't have anywhere to be, do you?"

"No." _Just a small village in France where the _Luftwaffe_ 56th Wing is waiting for me to come back with you and your family._

"Even if you did, it wouldn't matter," Susan said with a shrug. "When Lucy got in the first time, she said she was here for hours and she came back into the same minute that she had left. You wouldn't be missed."

If this was the truth, I could breathe a little easier. "I just have to bring you back to your mother, you understand," I reminded her. We walked in silence for a little ways before I asked, "Your sister came here first?"

Not looking at me, Susan nodded wordlessly. "And Edmund got in after her one night, and then we were running from Mrs. Macready after the boys broke a window playing in the yard and we all hid in the wardrobe, and…" She smiled ruefully. "I suppose we all fell backwards." Suddenly thinking of something, she looked up sharply and asked, "How did you get in, then?"

There was no harm in telling the truth here. "I was looking for you, and the professor told me that the four of you were in the wardrobe, so…I found this place. Narnia, or whatever it's called."

"It's just all so strange," the girl remarked—the first actual attempt she'd made at conversation besides replying to my questions. "I mean, it's technically impossible, being here, but now the difference between 'impossible' and 'real' isn't very clear anymore."

"That's true," I agreed solemnly, lifting my gaze as Peter suddenly shot a look over his shoulder at the two of us, his almost-Aryan eyes narrowing into blue slits. I returned the accusatory gaze with a questioning lift of my eyebrow, to which his eyes slid over me and focused on his sister, who quickened her pace to walk alongside him. Though I couldn't make out their words, I could easily guess as to what they were talking about. Suddenly tired with Peter' hostile attitude towards me, I jogged up to his other side, interrupting their furiously whispered conference.

"Someone," I informed them both, "is driving up behind us in a sleigh of some sort. Should I be worried?"

Everyone's heads, including the beavers', who had apparently been eavesdropping, swung around, panicky looks suddenly spread across their faces. Mr. Beaver—I still couldn't get over calling him that—shouted, "It's her! Run!"

The older children took off, the animals galloping awkwardly ahead of them. I followed at a sprint, jostling Lucy awake as I caught up with the group. Frightened, she tightened her grip around my neck, and I gagged, reaching up a hand to loosen her. Running on the ground like this always made me feel uneasy, and the little girl's weight on my back did not help. Any day, I would take the easy speed and grace of my Messerschmitt 109 instead of my legs: though I was required to keep in good shape and faithfully exercised each day, running after diving hundreds of feet in a fighter plane really took away any sort of excitement I would have felt at the speed. Always when running, I had the horrible sensation of going unbelievably slow.

We made for the line of trees ahead, leaping over a large boulder and taking shelter behind it. It wasn't the ideal position whatsoever, not to mention the telltale foot- and paw prints in the snow behind us, but we had no other place to move to now.

"Who's 'her'?" I asked in a low whisper to Peter.

"The Witch," he responded, lips barely moving. "Shhh!"

A humanoid shadow was suddenly cast on the ground inches away from our feet. Lucy grabbed her brother's arm as I slowly inched my hand into my jacket, grasping the _Luger_ hidden in its secret pocket. Though I hadn't wanted to reveal the weapon before the children, if we were attacked I would have little choice.

The shadow moved on, and the crunch of boots faded off.

"Maybe…she's gone," suggested Lucy. There was a long silence that was broken when Peter leaned forward as if to get up, but Mr. Beaver crawled over my ankle and nimbly slid out from under the overhang provided by the stone, gesturing for the boy to get back. "You're no use to Narnia dead," he growled, licking his chops nervously.

"But neither are you, Beaver!" his wife said fairly, reaching out a paw, which her partner grasped briefly with a muttered, "Thanks, sweet 'eart," before scrambling over the top of the boulder. Not letting go of my pistol, I tensed, listening hard for voices.

A few moments later, the beaver's head appeared upside over the lip of the overhang, creased with what I recognized with distaste as a shockingly human grin. "Come on, all of ye!" he said, voice no longer lowered. "Hope you've all been good, 'cause there's someone 'ere ta see ya!"

Confused, I followed the three children out of the shelter, keeping a wary distance as I quietly paced towards the waiting sled in the road. Pushing aside some tree branches, I was shocked to see a large, white-bearded man dressed in red beaming at the group. His sleigh was driven by reindeer much like the ones I had seen in Russia during the early part of the war, reminding me suddenly of…

Could it be?

My mind flashed back to when I was eleven years old and seated on my father's lap. He was a tall man with a booming laugh and kind blue eyes I had inherited, and he was telling me a story on this particular occasion while my mother prepared dinner in the next room. A merry fire crackled in the hearth, lighting the room as I listened with rapt attention to hear the story my family only told once a year—that of Father Christmas.

I recited the last few lines along with my father as he finished his tale, proudly finishing the piece. I looked to him with a smile, expecting praise, but instead a sad expression commanded his features. Unsure of the cause of this, I asked tentatively what was the matter. He had shaken his head with a smile and told me, "You're growing up fast, Heindrich. Soon, I think, you'll be telling that story to me when I'm gray-haired and bent with age!"

But that day had never come—I had grown into a man, too old for telling stories, and then the Führor had called his people to the Blitzkrieg and I had joined the _Luftwaffe_. The last time I had seen my parents was two years ago on a brief injury leave after my plane had been shot down on the French coast and I had taken shrapnel in the arm, effectively breaking and gashing the limb. After staying in the military hospital in the south of France (I had been the envy of my unit, having made several friends among the pretty French nurses), I had been allowed a week visit home with my parents and my younger brother and sister, both twins full of Hitler Youth fire, but we had not told the story of Father Christmas then. But now I recalled my father's description of the fat old man, with his red coat and his sleigh driven by eight reindeer packed full of presents for the good children of the world: a painting of words that seemed to spring to life before me now.

Peter and Susan appeared to be in a state of shock, but Lucy smiled and stepped confidently forward. "Merry Christmas, sir," she greeted the man warmly.

"And Merry Christmas to you, Lucy Pevensie," Father Christmas said with equal pleasantry. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, a gesture both innocent and all knowing. For it was Father Christmas—in this land, who else could it be?

But as he spoke, I jerked back into the shadows of the trees, deeply troubled. This was not the Father Christmas of my own father's stories. St. Nicholas was not English, and yet he had a distinct British accent. We had used to leave sauerkraut and sausages out for him on Christmas Eve, and he had eaten them. Though this was all some children's story…supposedly…the haunting flicker of my childhood brushed urgently against my conscious mind, protesting the wrongness of this scene as Father Christmas proceeded to speak with Lucy in English. Unnerved, I stayed back, watchful and quiet.

It appeared that Christmas had not occurred in Narnia for all the years the White Witch had had the place under her spell, and so Father Christmas began handing out the long-awaited gifts to his audience. Lucy was given a bottle of some sort of juice with a name I couldn't pick out of the fast flurry of foreign words that could heal any wound and a small dagger. Then, Peter and Susan, who were past their original disbelief, were beckoned forward: first, Susan was given an elegant white bow complete with a full quiver and a hunting horn, while Peter's gift was a splendidly crafted sword and matching shield with a lion crest. Father Christmas's merry eyes grew serious as he reminded the children that these were tools, not toys, dangerous weapons.

My suspicions that Narnia was in a different era of technology were confirmed as he dubbed the gifts "dangerous weapons". To be sure, I didn't doubt the swiftness of the arrows or the sharpness of the blades, but as my hand drifted into my coat I felt the butt of the _Luger_ in its holster and realized that I could be holding the most powerful weapon in the land. The thought was almost laughable at first, seeing as I was used to the heavy cannons of my Messerschmitt or our wing's machine- and anti-aircraft guns, but this wasn't France or the Reich anymore. This was Narnia, the land inside an English wardrobe, and it appeared that things were much different here. It was a sobering thought, feeling the cold metal of the gun inside my coat and realizing what power I held.

My reverie was broken at the sound of my name—not that tiring English guise Henry Matthews, but my real name, Heindrich Zöhler, pronounced correctly with a flawless German accent. My head jerked up to meet the expectant eyes of Father Christmas, and it struck me then that he knew who and what I was.

_Don't tell_, I thought pleadingly as I stared back at him, attempting to communicate without words. _They cannot know, not yet. I'm on a mission, I have to bring them back…don't tell…_

Apparently Father Christmas, however magical he might have been in this strange world, could not use telepathy, because he merely smiled and beckoned me forward. As if pulled forward like a helpless puppet, I followed his gesture, stepping before the sleigh.

"It has been a long time since you were home to receive anything for Christmas, Heindrich," he said in clear, perfect German, ending the nagging sensation of wrongness in the back of my brain.

"This is true," I said in almost a whisper in the same language. Of course it was—the officers had exchanged small gifts on Christmas Day before the daily Wellington bombing began anew for the past few years, but I hadn't had a real Christmas dinner with my family, hadn't put my own presents for them under the tree unless they had done so with my letters. All of this was occurring to me as if through a fog, useless information spewing forth only to be pushed away. My mind seemed to be buzzing, trying to think of any way to silence Father Christmas, to steer the conversation away from dangerous waters, but it was too late. We were already amongst the sharks, it seemed, for all three children and the beavers stared curiously at me. "Do you have to do this?" I asked remorsefully, glad that the children did not understand me. He knew what I was talking about.

He shook his ancient head firmly. "I will not have you deceive them, Heindrich. You were a good boy before you joined the army. They must know who you are and your true purpose, for here in Narnia pretenses will not last any longer. The time has come for you to choose your side, as well as tell the Pevensies your real name."

"I joined the _Luftwaffe_, not the army!" I protested loyally. "I fight for my country, for what I believe in. Are the British all the best of men, then? Tell me that! And what sides do you mean?"

"On both sides of your war," Father Christmas said slowly, "there are those good and kind, and those wicked and evil. That is all I shall say. But you are in Narnia now, not Earth—there is another war to be fought here, and it is because of these children. They know this, but they have not yet told you. You will learn what you need to know in time, but this I shall tell you now: you are here for a purpose as well. You did not stumble here by accident. Use your talents, your skill, and serve which purpose you find has the most meaning."

I was about to ask another question when he silenced me, clearly not finished. "Lines are not drawn for you to see, friend and foe are not clear," he told me sternly. "It is up to you to decide. You may side with those who in one world you call enemy—" he gestured to the Pevensie children "—or you might call them so for eternity and fight for those they war against."

"Either way," he told me, rummaging through his sack, "I have something for you, because outside of that whole business of the war you have continued to be a good person."

Privately thinking of the number eighty-six, the total planes I had personally shot down, I raised an eyebrow but said nothing as he drew forth a plain scabbard, in which was sheathed what I recognized from my historical studies in school as a saber. Unlike Peter's weapon, which was boldly embossed with the lion rampant, it was unmarked. Father Christmas handed it to me. Carefully, I took it, surprised at the weight of the steel hidden within the leather. Bringing his face close to mine, the old man whispered, "Their path is certain—yours is not. Forge your own way, Heindrich, but make it the right choice. You'll need this along the way."

"I'm not sure I'll know that when I see it," I confessed, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. I was still so confused by this whole business, still nonplussed by the sight of a person who existed only in legends in my own world.

"Think of it this way," he proposed. "You're Wing Commander. You give the orders depending on the situation. If they're the right choices, you keep yourself and your comrades alive. If they're not, you risk lives."

I simply nodded. That was easier to understand.

Returning the gesture, Father Christmas returned to his sledge, gathering the reins with another smile. "Long live Aslan," he declared, and then, in afterthought: "And Merry Christmas!"

And then he was off through the snow, clean white flakes spurting from the edges of the sled runners as they glided smoothly over the surface, powered by the even gait of the sturdy reindeer. I watched in silence until he disappeared on the long road, then turned, saber still in one hand. Everyone was watching me with an uncomfortable intensity.

"You speak German like a native," Peter remarked, usual accusatory tone flaring into life within his voice once more.

I hesitated. The right decision was clear—telling the truth—but now that I was here, I wanted to avoid it. Though we were enemies, the children and myself were the only humans in this land, and I felt honor bound to tell them what they should know. Anyhow, Peter and Susan at least would guess, would have their fears confirmed, and I knew right now that I could not live with such a lie. It was time.

"I owe you all und explanation," I told them, fumbling now with the English words after speaking German with Father Christmas. "You'd better all sit down."

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

* * *

_A/N/ Well then. I've given y'all a cliffhanger, how very bad of me...whatever will you do with me? For all those new to my stories, let me just remind/inform you that I prefer to answer all reviews in the below manner. _

_THANK YOU! A big hand and a box of chocolates to everyone who reviewed: I think you're all fantastic. I appreciate everyone's comments. To everyone: the whole "I'm not a Nazi" thing was just clarification, no need to get flustered._

_**ochEEcho:** As I said in my review reply, I am so touched by your response and thank you most profusely for both being the first person to review and also sending what was quite possibly one of the nicest reviews I've ever read. As for Mr. Pevensie...hmm, I hadn't actually planned a real appearance by him, but perhaps I may have to make an exception. (BWAHAHA!)_

_**TimeMage0955:** Oh dear. I hope you haven't died since I updated rather promptly—please come back to life if so? I need my nice reviewers! ((pats on head)) Mr. Matthews/Zöhler is _extremely_ confused, poor fellow. He's so left in the dark. Don't worry, Heindrich, we'll take care of all that...in another couple chapters..._

_**Yva. J:** Well, thank you! I haven't read Summer of My German Soldier myself, but I have heard of it and think that I shall now. Thanks for the recommendation/pleasant review. I'm so glad you liked it: hope you liked Chapter 2 even more!_

_**mis.mira:** Yes! This is what I wanted to hear! ((turns to huge crowd to announce)) It's well researched! Haha, I'm really glad to hear that: my dad the historian was giving me some small tips (mainly about his pistol, the _Luger_, of all things), but I mostly picked up on the idea from previous knowledge and the aforementioned book in Chapter 1's A/N. Here's your update!_

_**Callie:** Heheh, I can do a pretty good German accent if I put my mind to it...but writing it is a mite harder. For example, I can play Hitler easily in my friend's culinary video "Cooking with WWII's Dictators"—no, you REALLY don't want to see it—but Heindrich's accent is a challenge. He gets better throughout the story with his English, really, though most of the time he's putting on a fake British one, though he didn't have to for that little quote. So happy you enjoyed Chapter 1!_

_**Jillie:** Again, see the little note up top...maybe I was being a little paranoid, but I have to agree with you. No one says the word "Nazi" without getting pounced on. Heck, I put a swastika on my art project portraying the theme "Hate" and got called to guidance. Go figure. So...another one who wants to see Mr. Pevensie! Well...see ochEEcho's review response, I think I might put him in if he's in demand! I, too, have always pictured him a bit like Peter. And tell me about heartfelt story—I've been leaping on this idea since its beginning! My poor laptop's keys need a massage._

_**Hadrianna:** Well, here you are! ;)_

_**amidnightkiss:** Did you like the chapter...or the story? Let me know after you've read this! Thanks for your comments, I appreciate each one! (I like the premise too—oh wait, I came up with it...so much for modesty, I suppose)_

_Again, a thousand thank-yous to everyone who took the time to review! Chapter Three coming up after the flow of reviews comes pouring gracefully within my inbox..._


	3. Taken In

**Chapter 3 **

**Taken In**

_Compatriots in place  
They'd cringe if I told you  
Our best back pocket secret: our bond full blown_

_-Alanis Morissette, Wunderkind_

I took a deep breath and seated myself in the snow alongside the three children and the two quiet beavers, launching into my explanation before I had time for doubts.

"My name—my real name—is Heindrich Zöhler. Lieutenant Heindrich Zöhler, 56th _Luftwaffe _Fighter Group, if you want the full title."

Peter gasped. "_Luftwaffe_! That's—"

I glanced his way. "Please. Don't interrupt. Yes, _Luftwaffe_: our German Air Force, if you like, the ones who bomb English cities and shoot down their planes."

"Planes?" Mr. Beaver asked curiously.

Remembering suddenly that they didn't know what I was talking about, I sighed and explained hurriedly, "In our world, my people, the Germans, and theirs, the British, are at war. In this war, we use planes—flying metal machines—in combat."

"So—you've flown on one of these?" Mrs. Beaver chimed in questioningly, looking interested.

"Yes," I said, unable to conceal a note of pride in my voice. "In a type Messerschmitt 109 F-4/Trop, mostly, though I've tried several other German models and, once, a captured Spitfire."

Peter looked outraged, but did not say anything this time. I checked for my audience's attention before continuing.

"I'm probably everything you three have been taught to fear," I admitted, but not in an apologetic way. No, I most definitely was not apologizing for anything: I was stating the facts that I felt they should know. "My family are Nazis—they have gone to see the_ Führor _speak, my younger brother and sister are in the Hitler Youth. I have escorted bombers over London and other cities, shot down eighty-six planes to the record, and right now could be adding to that number, but instead I agreed to go on a mission for the S.S. because I spoke good English and didn't look like a complete Aryan. I assume you know what the S.S. means, yes? I came to bring you into custody because your father is under investigation by them for something, and if I hadn't followed you here, I would have succeeded."

Silence. Everyone was staring in shock and horror at me. Finally, Lucy asked in a quavering whisper—

"But why? Why would you do such terrible things, Mr. Matthews? I mean, Mr. Zöhler?"

I sighed. Of course, I didn't expect Lucy to understand such things, but I felt uncomfortable speaking about it in front of Susan and Peter.

"Because, Lucy, it is my duty. I'm not on your side, so I'm not loyal to the British. I do things the British would hate me for because they are my enemy and I want Germany to win the war. You call them terrible things—we call them accomplishments."

"Accomplishments?" Susan said scornfully, shaking her head. "What barbaric race calls ending someone's life an accomplishment?"

"I don't enjoy killing people, you know," I snapped, suddenly angry. "I don't relish it. But it's my job, and I have to do it. Do you really think your Royal Air Force lands whenever they shoot down one of our boys to weep for the life they've taken? I can tell you right now that they don't. I've had four friends shot down in one raid."

"Did they live?" Lucy wanted to know.

"Two didn't," I said bleakly. "One bailed out and walked home. The other bailed and was shot in his parachute. We never found his body."

There was a long, awkward silence. I myself began to feel a little uncomfortable: I hadn't meant to scare them, but it appeared I had. Peter eventually broke the stillness with a question.

"Can you prove it?" he asked. "How do we know you're not just telling us this to…I don't know, as a joke? I mean, you're dressed as an Englishman…it would have been difficult to pass as one now, when people are on the lookout for Germans!"

I stared blankly at him for a moment. He really did not believe me? Well, this was just typical. First, he does not believe me when I tell him I'm English, and now he doesn't believe that I'm German. With an astounded shake of my head, I pulled out my _Luger_ and held it up before his eyes so he could see the insignia branded into the butt of the pistol.

"This is the 56th Fighter Wing's personal crest," I informed him, allowing him to get a good look at it before holstering the gun once more and reaching into another pocket. I was not supposed to have what I did in this pocket in the event of my capture, but I had brought it along almost unconsciously. It was too late now for regret—besides, it could hardly be used as evidence here. I wasn't wanted in Narnia. Quickly, I drew forth my pilot's cap, the close-fitting cloth emblazoned with the _Luftwaffe_ wings and a small swastika on the pin.

"Is that enough proof for you? Do you want me to do the Nazi salute?" I asked with exasperation, but Peter was already shaking his head.

"No—I believe you. But…are you still going to take us back?" he wanted to know, reaching out to grasp his sisters' hands. "Because I'll have you know that-"

"No," I said abruptly. "I'm not going anywhere without your brother. I'm still going to help you find him."

"And after that?" Susan challenged.

I looked away. To tell the truth, even I was a little unsure about the answer to that question. After that…after we found Edmund, I didn't know. What would I honestly do? Betray their shaky trust once again and follow orders? Or let them go? "I won't try anything," I muttered, but I wasn't sure I believed myself yet. Time would have to tell. "But if you want me to leave, I assure you I will not."

The older siblings exchanged glances. Mr. Beaver suddenly stood and announced, "We still 'ave to get on the road, 'umans—we're not safe jes' sittin' 'ere. Ye can talk more later."

"He's right," Peter admitted, standing to help Lucy up and then buckling on his new sword. Remembering my own weapon, I hung it from my own belt, adjusting it so the new weight did not drag the sword into the snow. Then, after a moment's hesitation, I pulled on my cap, securing it snugly over my ears at its familiar jaunty angle. No one commented on this, but I felt a new surge of confidence rush through me. Perhaps I could manage the situation after all.

* * *

Maugrim, Captain of the Secret Police, bowed obediently to his queen. The tall, pale figure on the throne acknowledged his presence with a regal nod, though her cold gaze was elsewhere, thoughtful and distant. Taking this as a signal, the big wolf sat, avoiding her eyes as he waited for her to speak. She had just called him here after hearing the report of one of his lieutenants, the faithful Ranaz, who had had something very interesting indeed to inform his mistress of. 

Another human, it seemed, had found his way through the portal to Narnia from the realms of men, a young man strange and quite different from the four children. His presence had not been foretold in any prophecy, and what it meant was a mystery to the wolf captain. That wasn't really his concern, anyway. Leave the thinking to Her Royal Majesty: she'd see he and his pack had prey, whatever she decided.

"I would very much like to meet this stranger," the queen suddenly said, causing Maugrim to peer up into her face attentively. She still was not looking at him. "Bring him here after you've taken care of the children."

"Where shall we lay an ambush, milady?" the muscular canine growled respectfully, unsure of the quality of her mood.

"Cut them off," the Witch responded irritably. "Trap them. Drown them in the river. Drag them from Aslan's camp if you must! Think for yourself for once, Maugrim, and don't bother me with stupid questions. Do whatever you please as long as I receive the results I want. Now get out—your taste in conversation offends me. And Maugrim—I want him alive."

Though he had not attempted to start a conversation, Maugrim did not dare argue. Bowing his head briefly, he turned tail and trotted from the hall, claws clicking on the smooth, dark ice as he made his way into the courtyard below the palace. His wolves were ready: all they needed was a scent. Raising his great head to the wind, Maugrim snarled a command, and with excited barks and growls the pack burst from the gates towards the river.

* * *

"Winter is nearing its end!" Mr. Beaver announced, scooping snow from his path with his long, broad tail. "Since yew four children are 'ere, spring's finally comin'." 

"Spring? But I thought you said it's always winter in Narnia," I said with a frown, brushing powdery snow from my shoulder that had found a perch there on a playful gust of wind as I stepped over a drift.

"Aye, so it 'as been," the thickly-furred beaver replied agreeably, turning his head slightly to be heard, "but it's all part o' the prophecy that since those four are 'ere, spring'll come again, and 'the evil time will be over an' done'. See?"

Prophecies—what next? First endless winter brought on by a deranged witch, then talking animals, now the natural balance of the seasons restored by four ordinary British children…no one would ever believe this in a lifetime. No one, that is, from the world outside Narnia. I wondered briefly as to why even the inhabitants of Narnia believed in such things, but quickly dismissed the thought: of course, magical events happened here each day, and so prophecies and the like were probably run-of-the-mill.

"All right," I agreed with a shrug, content to let the matter be for now. Peter, however, who was walking behind me, stopped suddenly with a frown. Unprepared for his abrupt halt, Lucy ran into him, but he was so fixated upon his thoughts that he barely noticed. As he absently helped his younger sister out of the snow, giving Susan some time to catch up, he fixed his gaze thoughtfully on the beavers.

"You said spring is ending," the boy said, tone strangely troubled. "You know what that means? No more ice."

Mr. Beaver nodded, nonplussed. "Aye, lad, we'll all be glad to be rid of it…"

"No, no, that's not what I meant!" Peter continued urgently. "We have to cross a river to get to the Stone Table."

"That's right," Mr. Beaver confirmed, still not getting it, but I had picked up on what Peter was getting at and, horrified, gasped, "The _river_!"

No more ice—no more crossing! Any chance of evading the Witch, who apparently was in pursuit of the children, would be lost if we couldn't get to the Stone Table and Aslan's camp. I knew well enough from a year of fighting in Russia that frozen rivers were treacherous things even when securely locked in the icy grasp of winter: I had seen ice hold a belly-landed fighter and crack as soon as the pilot's rescuers forced the cockpit open. But the thought of crossing a steadily melting ice flow chilled my heart, so to speak.

"Let's get moving!" I barked, roughly turning Mr. Beaver around and shoving him forward. "Hurry up and lead on, unless you'd rather swim us across the river!"

Quickly and without comment, the hefty animal dropped to all fours and galloped awkwardly forward, followed closely by his wife. I ushered the three children hurriedly through in their path and loped along in the rear, scanning the surrounding woods instinctively. Mrs. Beaver had previously admitted to me that there was danger of a pursuing wolf patrol that had been sent on a false trail before the party had come across me, and by now I knew that after no sign of quarry for a day or so, anyone with some intelligence would figure out that they were looking in the wrong place. Though I admittedly was not well versed in the brain capacity of the wolf, they were typically thought of as smarter than beavers, and they were also predators—shrewd creatures in general.

After several minutes hurrying, the forest began to clear, finally opening to grudgingly reveal the river itself. The frozen waterfall near the ford caught the eye first, glittering proudly in its silent repose, but I did not bother with the view, instead running over to the lip of the shallow gorge to confirm our worst fears.

The water was flowing, running almost black against the floating white chunks of ice. Eagerly, it clawed its way free of the cold confines that had been its tomb for the past one hundred years, sending cracks skittering across the snow-covered ice that clung weakly to the base of the waterfall. Cursing softly under my breath with some choice German words, I quickly assessed the situation. It seemed to me that the best way to cross would be across the top of the falls, but the beavers were already leading the three children down the steep banks, scrambling to the water's edge. With a hiss of impatience, I followed—there was no time for retreat to the better path now.

Faint howling reached our ears: the wolves! They had picked up our scent, and even now their hunt calls grew dangerously audible. "Go, go!" I called, leaning back as I allowed gravity to drag me down the rocky slope. Already, Mr. Beaver was inching his way across the ice followed by the slowly shuffling children, who clung to each other though spreading out would have been the smarter idea, distributing weight evenly.

When I reached the bottom, I cautiously set foot on the first block of floating ice, moving my toe carefully across the snowy surface before gradually setting my weight on it. A blast of frosty steam jetted out from beneath the heavy, frozen slab, causing me to squeeze my eyes shut, though I could not draw back. Chancing a glance upwards, I saw wolves sprinting lightly over the crest of the waterfall, sending slivers of ice clattering downwards through the maze of trapped water. The leader bounded forward, nimbly descending the rocks bordering the falls in a series of fluid leaps. It set paw on the ice directly in front of the three children and Mrs. Beaver while one of its fellows expertly pounced on Mr. Beaver, keeping him pinned with a heavy paw despite his furious struggles.

I fumbled for my _Luger_, saber completely forgotten. Throughout the trek, I had paid it little mind: no one used the sword anymore, and thus the art of using one had never been offered to me. No, give me a gun or, preferably, a plane, any day rather than a blade—maybe sometime in the future I'd learn how to use my gift, but now really wasn't the time to start lessons.

Peter had drawn his sword on the wolf, holding it awkwardly up near his cheek yet keeping the tip trained on his opponent, who was snarling sarcastic comments at the boy. All the time, however, the canine grew closer and closer, circling expertly, all the time telling Peter to lower his blade, smoothly convincing, harshly criticizing, creeping closer and closer. I cocked my gun and started cautiously forward at a snail's pace, made unbelievably slow by the danger of the river, almost snarling with frustration myself. The wolf had moved out of range, using Peter, Susan, Lucy, and the distraught Mrs. Beaver as a shield so I could not get off a clean shot without hitting one of the children or the animal.

_If only I had a _planeI thought passionately. Even a little Storch, built for speed with occasional meager armament, would be sufficient in this situation, though I could more comfortably handle the wolves with a Messerschmitt. Instinctively, unconsciously, I mapped out my attack with a fighter: one sweep to check on positioning, ideally, though that was optional, and then a hard, tight dive as deep as possible without stalling to sweep the guns along the ice. What a challenge that would be! It'd be difficult enough to avoid the travelers, but I'd also need to ensure that, at most, I only let the odd bullet stray past them over the ice in order to prevent further cracking.

Shaking my head angrily, I pushed such wishful thoughts from my mind, concentrating on the moment. I had a pistol, not a plane, and I had to create a plan with what I had. Unable to think of anything else, I shot into the air once, taking satisfaction in the sharp _crack_ and the sudden waft of gunpowder that filled the air. Startled, several wolves yipped, looking around frantically. One, losing his footing at the pinnacle of the falls, slipped and tumbled downwards with a despairing howl. His body plunged through the ice, and dark cracks shot through the remaining surface. _Bad idea,_ I thought with a wince. None of the wolves had actually run, though many seemed to think that that was the preferable thing to do.

"Look!" Lucy suddenly shrieked, pointing frantically at the waterfall.

My head jerked up and around. To my utmost horror, the frozen water was beginning to give: small jets of freed liquid shot forth with a furious determination from the hard surface and, with a despairing groan, the mighty falls collapsed. Huge chunks of ice plummeted, slamming into the base of the cascade. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Peter plunge his sword deep into the berg where the three children stood and gather his sisters to him as both beavers plunged into the water—I had no time to do the same, I realized. I did the only thing I could: thrusting the _Luger_ back into its pocket, I curled myself into a ball as the ice slammed my back, launching me deep into the water.

Hearing the child's cry of alarm, the captain of the Secret Police leapt back across the ice, not caring that his paws dipped into the freezing water beneath him as he scrambled for escape. Maugrim almost made it. Almost. The current caught him a bound before the shore, sweeping him up into a mass of tangled limbs and fur.

Not allowing himself to panic, the big wolf opened his eyes underwater and paddled furiously for the surface, from which meager fingers of sunlight streaked his bad watery vision. His questing muzzle broke the waves and he gasped for air, greedily sucking in several breaths before being swept under again. Maugrim let the current carry him, keeping his gaze locked on the light from underwater and seizing the chance to head upwards once more. This time, the raging pressure from behind him had lost some intensity: he was able to stay above the water, choking on spray and fighting to keep his head up.

Summoning the remainder of his strength, the powerful animal struck out for the shore, slyly inching through the oblivious water, which had taken him for granted as a captive. A rock suddenly appeared in his vision, knocking the wind violently from his lungs as his body met the unforgiving stone. After catching his breath somewhat, Maugrim hurriedly clambered to the top and plunged into the water once more, fighting the current this time in order to reach shore. His straining forepaws finally brushed the muddy bank, and he clung to it, allowing himself a moment to rest before propelling himself ashore at last. The wolf lay wheezing on the reeds briefly, his persistent lungs forcing out the last of the water up before he forced himself to stand and shake thoroughly.

After a brief moment in which he allowed himself to catch his breath completely, Maugrim raised his head, searching the water for his wolves and the humans. There was no sign of the humans or those infernal beavers, but several wolves were hauling themselves out onto the bank on the opposite shore. To his irritation, only one of the pack had had enough sense to get out on his side, which Ranaz was doing now.

With a low growl, the Captain turned tail and loped for the cover of the trees. He would not give up on the humans now!

Cold! Mind-numbing, brain-crushing, burning cold! The shock of it had knocked all traces of air from my lungs and numbed the tearing pain in my back at once, but now my oxygen-starved brain was sending out screaming alarm messages. I gasped for air and swallowed water, attempting to fight the river and being thrown violently about. I opened my eyes slightly, but all I could see was the fury of the rapids, white foam and rushing water.

My back suddenly scraped the bottom, the current dragging me along the sharp rocks and gritty sand. I knew dimly I should be feeling pain, but the water had dulled my senses to the extreme, making it difficult to think. Crushing pressure shoved at my chest as I tried to turn around in order to attempt to swim. Panic swamped me. Suddenly, one foot, miraculously, found purchase on the ground as I hit a large rock. Even through my numbing mask, I could feel faint tendrils of pain shoot through my side like fire, waking my befuddled mind enough to direct it to put my other foot down and, with all my strength, push upwards.

Miraculously, I broke the surface, spray stinging my face. I gulped for air, pulling myself out of the water as if to better take it in. Hungrily, I sucked furious breaths before the treacherous river tugged me under again. Now, however, I was awake, and I fought against it with a new vigor. Fear made me alert, every nerve, every cell taut and ready. This was a pilot's worst nightmare, even for those who knew how to swim: trapped, flightless, below the surface, and with the faces of those in my unit who had drowned over the past few months fresh in my mind I kicked furiously.

Another mouthful of air, first taken cautiously in case I was still below the water, but when precious air met my lungs I gasped a desperate, deep breath. All was a blur to me—roaring water all around me, sweeping me downstream like a tiny cork bobbing through the mighty waves. Breathe. Hold it. Hold it. Breathe! What I would give for a life jacket now, the standard pilot's equipment, was frightening: what I would give to be out of the water altogether was unimaginable. Gagging, spitting, I met air once again, baring my teeth with the effort of staying upright in this hellish whirlpool bearing the innocent name of river.

But wait—_wait_. This was something I was trained for, I realized! There had been courses in training and regular drills after each death or missing in action report by the water in my Fighter Group. I struggled to remember the steps through my fright. First—what came first? Sergeant Kahn's gruff shout came back to me in a rush, and for the first time ever I was glad to hear it.

_Lie back. Don't struggle. You must stay calm._

At first, I was reluctant to try, but I forced myself to, fighting my way to the surface and allowing myself to float. Eagerly, the torrent beneath me swept me along, but to my relief I found that it could no longer pull me down.

_Okay, that's working,_ I told myself. _Good job. Come on now, Heindrich, what's second? What's next?_ Breathing frantically, coughing as water slopped over my face, I remembered.

_Paddle through the current towards the shore. Yes, Steinbach, you too. You're not going anywhere. Paddle, you idiot! I want to see your arms move! _

Remembering with detached humor how Armin Steinbach had reluctantly and with much rolling of eyes consented to "swim" through the grass near the runway, I allowed my legs to drift downwards into a proper swimming position. I kicked out, moving my hands in breaststroke as there was no way I was going to put my head back underwater. Slowly, I found myself moving through the water towards the bank. It seemed an eternity away—too far! _Shut up!_ I snarled to myself, viciously biting my own lip to quell the panicky voice rising within me, threatening to control the situation. _What's next?_

_Don't aim for a certain point: you're sure to miss it, and that'll just make you panic. Knowing how you boys fly, you probably already are, so let the current carry you down until you can grab onto the bank. _

Eyeing the distance between the bank and myself dubiously, I waited, focusing on my swimming rhythm. To my dismay, my arms and legs felt like they were made of lead, and that heavy numbness was descending upon my mind again like a veil of mist. I couldn't feel my toes or fingers, and though blood streaked the water around me I felt no pain. This wasn't a good sign, and so I bit down harder on my lip, relishing the pain as the tangy taste of blood filled my mouth.

_When you get there,_ I remembered, _haul yourself out of the water quick and dry yourself off. Keep moving and don't sit or lie down, or else you're dead. Start walking home as soon as possible, and if you stop to rest I will never make you forget it if you get back._ With foreboding, I caught sight of the medical tent after a crash on the coast in my mind's eye: frostbitten fingers, blue lips…

With effort, I lifted my head to the shore. It was almost within grasping distance now: one more kick and I'd be—yes! My fingers met cattails, and I hung on grimly, reaching my other hand around to pull myself out of the water. My freezing muscles protested, but with gritted teeth I kept up the attempt, my feet finding sand and pushing myself upwards. I crawled over the plants and through the mud at the foot of the bank until I was completely out of the water. Though my body begged me to close my eyes and sleep, I staggered to my feet, clambering with difficulty over the rise onto the thin snow.

Without warning, I dropped to all fours and vomited up river water and the meager meal of dried fish and bread the beavers had served for breakfast, violent tremors racking my frame. When I had finished, I sank back on my haunches, utterly spent and still gasping. But I had to get up. I had to.

Shakily, I stood again, shivering. A fire would be the best course of action, but now the simple task of gathering wood seemed impossible. Start walking home…but home was literally a world away, and my companions were nowhere to be seen.

"Things just can't get any more worse, can they?" I groaned in German (I didn't have the strength nor a reason to attempt a foreign language at the moment), wincing as feeling began to return to my fingers and toes. I was suddenly aware of a throbbing ache in my back and side that worsened every moment—I had done some real damage there back in the river, I realized with dread.

But it appeared they could. From somewhere in the woods behind me, a menacing snarl rumbled into my range of hearing, backed up by several other voices. I whirled, automatically going for my _Luger_ even though it had been rendered temporarily useless after its soaking. By some stroke of fortune, it was still there, along with the sword and—somehow—my cap. My right shoe, however, had been torn away, and I could feel ragged strips of my jacket rubbing my raw back.

Four wolves were advancing on me, the hairs on their wet backs rising and their long teeth bared. After a moment's hesitation, I drew the saber with great effort and leveled the curved blade at them. "Get back," I said hoarsely in English, having figured that the general common language of Narnia was, absurdly, that language.

"Put it down, human," rasped one, whose fur was a dark brown. "We can all see you're tired: why not let us kill you quickly?"

"Come and try it," I managed through gritted teeth. I could maybe bring one or two down with me if they did attack—they had obviously battled the river as well and couldn't possibly be that eager to engage in a fight.

The smallest, a light gray streaked with mud, whined nervously and turned to his fellows. "C'mon, let's just go!" he yipped, shooting a terrified look at me.

The largest of the group, a huge timber wolf with what I supposed was the typical silver/gray fur pattern, snarled and leapt forward, cuffing the speaker over the ears with a hefty paw. "Shut up, Shortpaw!" she said furiously, lifting her lip to reveal a row of teeth. "That's treason you're talking! The Queen wants the human brought back to her!"

I was too tired to wonder why the Witch wanted to see me: instead, I watched as the small gray one whimpered and cowered in submission. The last of the group, a black-furred male with eerie pale eyes, gazed expressionlessly at me for a moment before remarking, "He wouldn't be much to eat, would he?"

Offended, I snapped, "I doubt you'd find me all that tasty, puppies, and if you did succeed in killing me I'd be sure I choked you on my way down!"

"That's what they all say," chuckled the apparent leader of the group nastily. She took a daring step forward, sniffing me curiously. "You're rather spunky for someone who's just been down the river, human."

I didn't respond: it had been a mistake to talk to them before. Matching her attitude, I took a step forward myself, hefting the sword experimentally. Suddenly, an idea came to mind: why not try a bluff? Taking out my gun, I leveled it threateningly at the lead wolf, sighting down the barrel with one eye.

"This does more than make noise," I hissed. "Come one step closer and I'll put an extra ear in the center of your forehead."

Though the wolves obviously had not seen what guns could do before, the intimidating tone of my voice was unmistakable. Suddenly uncertain, the big timber wolf took a step back, glancing back at her companions. What she had been ordered to do, however, seemed to be more important than the threat: after a moment, she sneered with false confidence and barked, "You can't get us all, human. One of us will be able to finish you off. Go on and—"

She broke off, eyes widening at the sight of something above me. Confused, I looked up—and gasped. Diving towards me was a huge creature like which I had never seen before: with an eagle's head, wings, and talons and a lion legs, it soared gracefully through the air, opening its beak to give a triumphant screech. Awestruck, I remembered the name of this beast: gryphon, an animal existing only in Earth's fairy tales.

The magnificent creatures flared its huge wings, raking its talons forward at the wolves, who scattered in fear. Haughtily, it circled once and landed before me, dipping its head in greeting. I wordlessly sheathed my sword and, unable to find words, bowed in return. Seeming satisfied with this response, the gryphon shocked me further by saying, "On my back, Son of Adam: I come on Aslan's orders from the Pevensie children. They await you at camp."

"C-certainly," I stammered, moving to the animal's side. Obligingly, it knelt and lifted its darkly-feathered wings so I was able to easily mount behind them. When it was sure I was settled, the gryphon gave another piercing call and launched itself into the air, massive wings beating effortlessly as it circled for altitude and glided across the river. Clutching mixed handfuls of feathers and fur tightly, I briefly reveled in the newfound joys of flight before closing my eyes for what I told myself was a short rest.

I was snoring softly before my head hit the feathered back of the gryphon.

* * *

_A/N: Hello again, all...how'd everyone like this chapter? Thanks, all reviewers! I worked rather hard on this one, it being my longest, but I think Chapter 4 is going to be even longer. It's almost done. _

_Well...I can think of nothing else today, it's rather early in the morning still and I'm listening to the Rent soundtrack, courtesy of my friend Sam. Oh yes--for everyone's information, I have a new book entitled _Luftwaffe Aces_ (very good, I recommend!) for further fun details to be added. Also, I have started an alternative backup story about Heindrich that is totally unrelated to this fanfiction: if anyone's interested in reading it, I may just put it up somewhere for your enjoyment/satisfaction for horror.  
_

_**ohcEEcho:** I'm so glad to hear I've brightened up your day! ;) Happiness...! Thanks so much for your wonderful, touching comments as usual--glad to hear I'm keeping up in my work. Always glad to hear that. And now he's officially Mr. Zohler again...lol. But you can call him Mr. Matthews if you want, he doesn't really mind._

_**amidnightkiss:** An ace, you say? Well, he'll be happy to hear that, but he really hasn't had his full potential realized yet. The guy with the most kills by the end of the war, Erich Hartmann, I think his name was, had 347 or something like that. So, in reality, Heindrich is talented, but he's nowhere near his final count yet. He's still considered an amateur, albeit a good one, though he has been recently made an officer shortly before this takes place. A young officer. He's still in his early twenties...I think. And glad you liked the little Father Christmas scene! Teehee, that was kinda funny to write...and he got a present too._

_**Morwen Pallanen:** Aw, you like my story idea! Thanks! Glad to hear my spelling and grammar are up to date...I, too, am slightly obsessive over making sure I have it all correct. Thanks for the check, please do tell me how I did on this chapter as well!_

_**TimeMage0955: **Oh, wonderful: you live! Here, I updated fairly quickly, remain that way. Yeah...Peter actually wasn't too mad as he already suspected Heindrich, but obviously he's even less taken with our dear main character now. _

_**JustJill: **Enjoying the little twist there? Merci beaucoup. And I was kidding about the reviews, really--that was an attempt at light banter, though I see it didn't work. Heheh, not that I expected it to: my own wit is sadly lacking. Thanks for the opinion, though! I always appreciate a good point._

_**Fourmoons:** You liked it? Oh good! Well, here's your update, thanks..._

_**Arlindor:** Please, feel free to read on if you like it--I guess if you're down to here, you're good... ;)_

_A good deal of huzzahs all around! Next update following shortly...  
_


	4. Choices

**Chapter 4 **

**Choices**

I awoke slowly, rising at my own leisure from the heavy mist of sleep. I felt wonderfully refreshed: over the past few years, I had forgotten this delicious feeling of having gained a good, lengthy rest. When one was constantly at the beck and call of the enemy, sleep was an elusive luxury that was difficult to come by. In fact, Wellington bombers would fly over the airfield every night in order to disturb our rest, shelling the surrounding area with a vigor we all detested. Privately, each pilot probably had their own imaginative, detailed plots about how to best destroy the pests: my personal one involved inflaming each spoke of the propeller over the course of several minutes, after of course locking all bombs inside so we could actually sleep.

Thinking of such things, I reflected that I had been away from combat too long if I was able to enjoy this sleep. But hadn't I recently been in some sort of fight? Something involving wolves—and a river!

I jerked upright as memories flared into wakefulness, all clamoring for attention, cramming themselves forward in my mind. Agonizingly sharp spikes stabbed suddenly in my back, causing me to groan and collapse back on the bed, gasping at the pain. When I gingerly reached back to search for the cause of the pain (my shirt, I noted, had been removed) my fingers met tender scar tissue and, I suspected but couldn't tell, massive bruises. That, I supposed, was from being dragged along the bottom of the river, and it was possible I had broken or torn something as well. The pain was excruciating.

Rolling carefully onto my side, I surveyed my surroundings. Canvas walls soared on all sides of me, meeting in a peaked top supported by wooden stakes. A tent, then. Light poured in through the crack at the flap, which illuminated the entrance, but otherwise it was quite dim. My bed was extremely comfortable; the sheets were snugly pulled up near my chin. Directly to the right of my head was a small, plain nightstand, upon which a squat unlit candle and a pitcher of water rested.

Realizing that my hands had been bandaged, I cautiously lifted the clean white cloth and peered in on my frostbitten fingers. Admittedly, they looked grim, but I could feel them well enough now and none had been amputated while I had been asleep, thankfully. I wasn't one to really judge how bad they were anyhow. Bandages encircled my torso as well—presumably for my back injury—in addition to the dressings on my right foot, which had been the one that had lost its boot.

Muted birdsong suddenly swelled outside, and on the canvas top of the tent I spotted the small shadow of a sparrow flicker overhead in flight. Shaking my head in wonderment, I was suddenly struck by a desire to know where I was. Slowly, I raised myself from the bed—only to fall back again once more, clenching my teeth against the fiery pain. I glared at the low roof above me, frustrated, but made no further attempt to get up.

Suddenly, a massive shadow appeared near the door, growing taller and taller with each step closer. I cast my gaze hurriedly about for some sort of makeshift weapon, but nothing suitable was within reach—my own gear was nowhere to be seen. All I was able to do in my present condition was huddle lower inside the constrictive cocoon of blankets encircling me and grab the candleholder, which, pathetic as it was, was the best line of defense I would have. My fingers curled around the small metal base, knuckles whitening as the creature outside the tent drew closer—

A huge paw covered in tawny fur curved around the tent flap and moved it aside. The tips of black claws darted out slightly as the limb flexed and took the weight of its owner, who emerged directly after it. I recoiled, eyes wide and mouth dropping open, as an enormous lion stepped quietly into the dark room, light spilling in behind it. In all my life, I had never had the same impression of such power: hard muscles rippled beneath the short golden pelt, which flowed easily over the compact body beneath it like a stream swiftly coursing across the rocks of its bed, and the animal's powerful jaws, which I could tell from the outline of its lips and the protruding points, held long, razor-sharp teeth. The outside breeze ruffled the great darker-furred mane, which nonetheless agreed with the lighter shade of the body's fur. I noted as if from far away that the animal was male—a glimpse of the lower belly had confirmed that—but I was not drawn so much to the body now but the eyes.

Like all Narnia's animals, sentient intelligence was plain in that clear golden gaze, but that was hardly prominent. Just by looking at this magnificent animal you could tell that he was extremely knowledgeable—no, wise was a better word. People say that wisdom is intensely difficult to acquire, but there was no question that the lion had, without a doubt, done so and more. Emotions made themselves visible immediately as I continued to meet that silent gaze: a sense of royalty, grandness that was accompanied by somber seriousness…and even, perhaps, a spark of genuine kindness?

Still, no matter how fascinating I found this lion, there was still the problem of him (a fully fit adult who had nothing to lose by devouring me, an injured, prone human, which would have been painfully easy for him) blocking the only way out while I lay there gawping like an idiot. As he took a pace closer, I held up the candleholder in a menacing way, feeling completely stupid. _At least,_ I consoled myself; _no one in the squadron is here right now. I'd get a laugh if they heard I was holding a little piece of metal up to this monster. _

To my surprise, the lion laughed, gentle bass notes undulating throughout the tent. His tone was not at all mocking or harsh—in fact, it made me want to chuckle at myself, but I didn't. Not yet.

"Peace, Heindrich Zöhler," he said soothingly, lifting a paw. "Your battle with the river and the wolves of the Witch has long since ended, and I mean you no harm."

I wasn't so convinced. During my unit's brief stay in North Africa, I had heard several chilling tales about lone-lions-turned-man-eaters and, in fact, had briefly encountered one while driving between camps with my friend Erich Schneider. It had been a lioness that time, big and powerful, and she had been crossing the road at the time our car had come around a bend. Erich and I had both scrambled for our weapons, but the tawny-furred animal had merely stared haughtily at us before sauntering off with a warning growl in our direction. However, I did put down the candleholder at this lion's words, more so because I felt incredibly stupid holding it than I felt I needed protection. A small piece of metal really wasn't going to stop him if he had malicious intent.

"Who are you?" I asked quietly, finally summoning the sense to close my mouth. "And how do you know my name?"

"I am Aslan," he responded simply, seating himself at my bedside. He was uncomfortably close now: his warm breath, which smelled ever so faintly of his last meal, stirred the top sheet on my bed. However, I didn't notice. Aslan…this name had been mentioned before. He was the one who could find Edmund and bring him back, the one who we had been traveling to all along! But I had never expected this. A lion? Unconsciously, I had been thinking another human. I couldn't have been more wrong, apparently.

"As for knowing you," Aslan continued, "when the Pevensie children and their guides, the Beavers, arrived in camp, they insisted that a scout was sent out to look for you. Kydr, our gryphon friend, found you soon after you crawled out of the river, as you may recall. He said you were attempting to take on four wolves single-handedly: that is indeed commendable," he added, nodding gravely to me.

Remembering my exhaustion at the time, I shook my head wryly. "That wasn't so much an act of bravery as it was of desperation," I told him.

"And yet you stood up to them nonetheless!" rumbled the lion, meeting my gaze seriously. "No matter the circumstances, that is an admirable thing."

Though my feelings were just the opposite, I murmured my thanks quietly, pausing to gather my thoughts before speaking again. "Are the children all right?"

For some reason, my thoughts had turned to them immediately: I reasoned that it wasn't so much, _of course_, because I was growing to like them—it was because I still had that odd sense of protection, seeing as they were my official charges. Also, they were my traveling companions, the only other people I had seen in days, so naturally I would be thinking of them. Of course. I had been surprised by their apparent concern for me in Aslan's story, though somehow I couldn't see Peter begging the lion to send out someone to look for me. That would be one of the girls' doing, probably Lucy's. The littlest girl seemed to actually like me despite my confession to being a German soldier, probably, I had figured, because she didn't completely understand the nature of what I was implying, but it appeared that her feelings still held true despite anything that her brother and sister had made clearer for her. She was quite the confusing young child.

Aslan smiled, revealing several long teeth in the process. "They are all four of them well and safe as of yesterday when their brother was returned to them. Edmund is quite eager to meet you, but of course you were asleep."

"Edmund's here!" I exclaimed, taken aback. "How? I thought he was a prisoner…?"

"Of the White Witch, yes," growled the mighty lion irritably. "Two wolves serving her attacked Susan and Lucy yesterday by the brook. The leader, Maugrim, who is the captain of the Secret Police, was slain by Peter, and after his death the other one fled, thus leading our warriors back to the Witch's camp. They freed Edmund and returned early this morning."

"I'm glad to hear it." Truly, I realized, I was.

Aslan eyed me for a moment, allowing silence to settle momentarily. "The children mentioned why you had followed them. I hear a war goes on in your own world. I would like to know more about this."

And so, after taking a deep breath and hauling myself up into a sitting position, I told him everything. I told him of the Führer's plans to invade the surrounding countries, his vow to restore the Aryan race and lead them to greatness, his attack and successful invasion of Poland, what he had said to his generals before sending them into battle, confirming his fiery speeches: "Close your hearts to pity. Act brutally. Whatever we find in the shape of an upper class in Poland is to be liquidated…"((1)) _Blitzkrieg_. How Britain and France had declared war upon Germany almost immediately. My personal involvement in the war, starting just after it had been officially declared. The bombings, the raids, the so-called Battle of Britain that was taking place as we spoke.

And then I told him about my personal war, explaining to him about fighter planes and how they worked. I described the first thrill of flight to him, a thrill long since diminished by years of experience, my first dogfight, the horror of the glint of searchlights on barrage balloons, the thud of gunfire jolting the wings of my Me-109, and the cold, calculating purpose I always felt when landing a wrecked plane or bailing out into the freezing air. I felt no shame, no embarrassment in telling him these things: those deep golden eyes were understanding and calm. Though of course such a thing was impossible, Aslan seemed to know already, taking every detail with a gentle nod that urged me onwards in my dialogue. When I had finally finished, I took a drink from the water beside my bed and returned the nod, adding a decisive note to the gesture.

The powerful beast gazed thoughtfully at me, taking his time before speaking. "So, you are indeed a soldier, Heindrich Zöhler."

"A pilot, yes."

"A soldier yet not a soldier," Aslan confirmed. "Interesting. A fighting hawk. But does he fly solo, or does he come and go at the falconer's call?"

I said nothing to this, not sure what he meant and relieved that the question seemed rhetorical. A sudden twinge racked my side, and I doubled over with a gasp, uncurling slowly when the pain subsided. I rubbed the spot ruefully.

"I was told you broke a rib," the lion informed me. "You had quite a rough time underwater, apparently. Your back and right side are severely bruised and possibly contain cracked bones that are eluding discovery. Also, your fingers and toes are frostbitten, though the healers are fairly certain that you will not lose any of them."

"_Fairly_ certain?"

"Almost positive. Your left hand was giving them some worry, but they believe you'll make a positive recovery," Aslan assured me. I didn't feel all that assured, but I accepted his words as the truth.

"I suppose you'll want to see the children," my visitor went on, standing and turning to the tent door. "We'll have to look for them, I think, but they cannot be far. Can you stand?"

"Yes," I said instantly. No one in the 56th Fighter Wing ever complained about past injuries. We had learned our lesson after our drill sergeant had given one man the permanent nickname of "Whiner" after he asked to have another day before flying again after breaking his leg.

Eyeing me dubiously, the lion exited, though his shadow was apparent on the side of tent. Slowly, I slipped out of bed, tentatively taking a step forward. My back and foot both pained me, but I determinedly hobbled to the small chair in the corner where clean clothing had been set out for me. I still wore my pants—makeshift ones the boys in my division had put together from a set of uniform pants in what they hoped was English-looking—but my jacket and shirt were nowhere to be found, apparently too battered by their ordeal in the river to be of further use. Instead, a collared green tunic lay folded before me, fitting loosely enough that I had to roll the sleeves back once, and beneath the chair were a pair of leather boots that were approximately my size. My weaponry was not within the tent.

Wearing this strange new attire, I stepped out of the tent, blinking at the bright sunlight. When my eyes had adjusted, I gasped: before me lay a beautiful field in full bloom!

My brain quickly recalled Mr. Beaver's words about winter ending and cracking ice beneath my boots. It appeared that spring had fully arrived in full, vengeful force, painting the countryside a vivid green as flowers burst to life from their former brittle existence in frozen, frost-covered cocoons and water bubbled merrily from the ice. Remembering my recent encounter with water, I shuddered, feeling a touch of winter's chill about myself despite the warm air.

Aslan was waiting outside and turned to me with a satisfied nod. His thick mane ruffled in the light breeze that flickered about us, causing a sharp snapping noise to emit from the pennant adorned with a rearing lion rampant similar to the one on Peter's shield perched atop my tent. I looked about myself, shaking my head in wonder at the multitude of other shelters that made up what appeared to be an army's camp. At a distance, I caught the flash of sparks and a wisp of smoke at a doorway that presumably was a weapon's forge, and through the rough streets and alleys created by the tents a multitude of people and animals wearing crimson uniforms bustled. Not quite people…no, the only real human in the area was myself. There were a few who looked very much like humans but were in fact different: creatures, I knew, that appeared in our fairy tales. Elves, maybe, goblin things, centaurs…!

The lion's low rumbling purr jerked my attention away from the scene of the camp below, and I turned to him as he spoke. "It's quite impressive, isn't it?"

Though I was in fact not too impressed by the actual numbers, more so by the beings that made them up, I nodded anyhow. No sense in being rude to whom I assumed was our host. After a moment's pause, Aslan unhurriedly turned and padded away, a twitch of his tail suggesting that I follow him. I did so, limping with difficulty after him over the gradual rise that led away from camp towards an open meadow. As we approached, I marveled at my surroundings, still amazed by the rapid change of seasons.

Suddenly, hoof beats thundered in my ears, drumming in a rapid rhythm as the riders themselves came into sight. Locked in enthusiastic combat with crude wooden swords, the two boys urged their horses—actually, horse and unicorn: one mount had a pearly gray horn springing proudly from its brow, which somehow didn't surprise me—faster as they circled and fenced with each other, calling out words of encouragement and playfully jeering. One was clearly Peter by the flash of that eerily Aryan blond hair, looking like a Hitler Youth poster boy as he galloped towards us, weapon proudly held high, but the other I did not recognize and I realized must be Edmund. He shared Susan's dark features, his long forelock and eyes both a dark brown bordering on black and his face so freckled it seemed to have been almost completely tanned, and had rather a plain face with a snub nose and dull sort of expression.

As the two brothers halted before us, laughing and gasping for breath, Aslan approached them. The horses, I noted with interest, showed no fear of him as ordinary ones might do, instead lowering their heads respectfully in that irritatingly human way the Beavers had.

"Good morning, Sons of Adam!" the lion growled good-naturedly, glancing over his shoulder at me and beckoning me forward with a sharp movement of his chin. "I hope your ride was…educational."

"Certainly it was!" laughed Peter, playfully swinging at his brother with his sword, who ducked. "I gave Edmund a few lasting lessons." Noticing me, his smile faded slightly, and he seemed to be struggling for a proper facial expression. After a long moment in which I waited for someone to speak, he finally managed, "Er…hello, Heindrich. You're awake then."

I nodded in acceptance, noting with amusement that Edmund leaned forward eagerly to study me. "That's the German soldier?" he asked as if I was not present. After his eyes had enthusiastically raked my face, his excited smile became slightly diminished. "He doesn't look all that different."

"Were you preferring this?" I asked almost irritably, accounting his rudeness for his young age, though you would never see a German boy of his age speaking to an adult—really, _about_ an adult—in such a way. I snapped to correct attention, throwing out my right arm in the Nazi salute as I shouted, "_Heil, Hitler!"_

The crispness of the motion, though painful, was strangely gratifying. No, I definitely hadn't forgotten anything in my short time in this strange world. I hadn't lost anything…well, there was the small matter of several layers of skin on my back, but otherwise I was the same person I had been.

Edmund grinned, sitting back in his saddle, and had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. "I guess you _are_ German."

"I guess I am," I replied. "I vas the last time I checked." Noticing that I had let the "v" slip out, I wryly grinned. I had unconsciously become more relaxed about that: it did feel better not to be lying about myself now, though I could admittedly use better company. Two English boys and an enormous talking lion were hardly friends of a _Luftwaffe_ pilot. "And, by your accent, I think you are British, yes?"

He smiled nervously. "'Course I am."

I studied him briefly, noting the dried blood forming a scab on his lower lip: Edmund had not gone through captivity unscathed. That was to be expected. I myself still had a long scar across my cheek that was a souvenir of my brief time as a prisoner of war after being shot down over Britain's coast. I, however, had not been rescued: along with another German prisoner, now my best friend Fritz Reihmann, I had stolen a British plane from the local airfield and performed an emergency landing in France. We had both been injured in the crash, but I had received that particular cut from a guard who disliked "Jerries" just as much as we hated him. Unfortunately, at the time I had been tied up and he had been armed, so it wasn't exactly a fair fight. Still, I was now able to feel a bit more compassion for the rude English boy. He had been through too much to judge him yet.

"How are you feeling?" I asked slightly more gently.

Sheathing his sword, Edmund grinned. "Much better now that I've had a few whacks at this fellow," he said, gesturing to Peter, who prodded him with his weapon point warningly. "What about you? I heard you got lost in the river."

"I think I shall live, thank you," I responded.

To my astonishment, Edmund's horse turned his head abruptly and said dryly, "Oh look. A visitor." It took me a few moments to remember that yes, all Narnia's animals _did _know how to speak and shake off my surprise.

Before I could ask what he meant, however, I saw the moving crest of grass shooting towards us like a wake off a U-boat's torpedo. Upon taking the hill, it halted, and from the thick green stems poked Mr. Beaver's head. I couldn't exactly say I was happy to see him, but any time for making up a false expression of pleasure at his appearance was not available due to the serious look on his furry muzzle.

"Aslan! Peter, E'mund, wot's yer name—Zöhler! The White Witch is here! Come quick—she wants t'talk to ye, Aslan, sir! It's 'bout the boy."

The great lion's previous look of amusement instantly vanished and was replaced by a savage visage. Instinctively, I drew back from him: he looked about ready to maul something, at least according to the popular stereotype of lions I was used to, and I preferred not to be in the way. The news made little sense to me, though I did get the impression that the White Witch was not at all welcome in camp. Briefly recalling my conversation with Father Christmas, I realized that this was highly unusual if the two factions were at war. From what it sounded like and the incredulous tone the beaver used, it was as if Montgomery had suddenly walked into Rommel's camp demanding a chat in my own world. Strange.

With a brisk nod to the three of us, Aslan padded swiftly and silently after the beaver, who led the way back to camp at a hurried, ungainly gallop. Edmund's horse, the more talkative one, looked me up and down with disinterest and heaved a sigh.

"Get on, Son of Adam," he said impatiently. "We'll be wanted back in camp, I'm sure. Come on, hurry up."

Deciding not to argue, I walked up beside him, grabbed his mane, and swung myself astride him behind Edmund with some difficulty because of my wounded foot. I was fairly used to horses from riding them on my family's farm as a child, but I was unprepared for the sudden burst of speed the chestnut stallion put on for his gallop back towards camp, accompanied easily by Peter's brilliant white unicorn.

Once back, the three of us quickly dismounted. The steeds wandered off on their own accord into the growing crowd, leaving me to clear a path through the host of strange creatures with a few choice "Excuse me"'s in the right places. Peter and Edmund followed without question, clearly as eager to get to the front as I was. No one questioned our presence—the two boys were actually bowed to by most of the host, who were reluctant to part for me but more than willing to once they saw who was with me, much to my irritation.

Aslan stood before what I assumed must be his tent, his expression from what I could read of it looking stormy. The White Witch had brought a host of monsters with her: I recognized a cyclops, what looked like some sort of great bull standing on two legs, and a dwarf with a long beard, though the other species I could find no names for. Several ugly creatures, most of them hulking lumps of muscle and not much brain as far as I could tell, bore a heavy litter, atop which sat the Witch herself.

To my surprise, she looked human, though I suspected that she was something else by the suggestions in her dark, dilated eyes, unnaturally long, elegant limbs, and unnervingly pale features. I suppose she was beautiful, in a cold sort of way, and though I had been told that she was an ancient creature she seemed to be middle-aged. Her gown and robe were strangely primitive: my first impression was of animal fur, wolf fur, maybe, of guards that had disobeyed her. Atop her head rode an icy spike of a crown, edges jagged and sharp as if it had been smashed from a glacier. Just looking at her made me want to shiver, but I sternly reprimanded myself for the thought: I had seen much worse than this woman, who was admittedly unsettling but nonetheless was a mortal creature.

Or was she? I had no idea.

Posture regal, she stood, allowing her garment to spill about her like the hungry waters of the river, and regarded Aslan with a look of undisguised contempt for a few moments before speaking in a clear, cold voice.

"You have a traitor in your midst, Aslan," she proclaimed dramatically. Did she mean Edmund, I wondered? The children had indicated that he had gone to her…

"His offense," the lion growled, stepping forward himself, "was not against you."

A deathly hush had fallen over the crowd. All were listening closely on both sides, though I was having a difficult time understanding what was going on. Shifting my weight to my uninjured leg, I kept quiet myself for now, eager to hear her response.

It came quickly and was delivered with false surprise. "Surely you have not forgotten the Deep Magic?"

Oh, wonderful. More magic.

Aslan seemed annoyed by the question. Baring his long fangs, the King of Narnia snarled, "Do not speak to me of the Deep Magic! I was there when it was written."

The lion was not keeping the best control of himself, I noted expressionlessly. Not the best of ideas for a negotiator who wished to keep the peace, but then again, wasn't a war already going on? I had so many questions.

"Then surely you have not forgotten that all traitors belong to me?" the Witch said silkily. She, on the other hand, was cool and collected and knew perfectly well that it was getting to Aslan. "That boy—" Her hand shot out, imperious finger like an arrow to Edmund's heart. Beside me, he flinched, dark eyes clouded. "—will die on the Stone Table."

"Come and take him then," snapped Peter, drawing his sword. I knew instantly that it was the wrong idea by her small, mocking smile, which did nothing to illuminate her face.

Rather than see my fellow human mocked, though it would probably have been good for him, I reached over and pushed his sword arm down so the wickedly gleaming blade's tip was buried in the lawn beneath our feet. Throwing any reservations I might have had to the winds, I stepped in front of the two boys. A withdrawn part of my brain observed that such an action was rather protective of me when I supposedly didn't like them at all, but I absently told that small voice to shut up. After all, this was only because…because I hated the superior look on the Witch's face: like most arrogant bullies, she thought herself instantly better than those against her. Pilots learned differently sooner than any other kind of soldier after they got shot down their first time, and the idea of someone being stupid enough to underestimate an opponent got under my skin. Yes. That was it.

"Who are you to say who lives or dies?" I demanded. "Only _schwein_ like you judge a traitor by their own say."

Her gaze—and with hers, all those present—shifted to me, and a tiny flicker of surprise lit her fathomless gaze. After a long moment of silence, she said slowly, "And who are _you_, Son of Adam, to challenge a right you do not understand?"

"I am _Oberleutnant_ Heindrich Zöhler of the _Luftwaffe_ 56th Fighter Group!" I declared boldly in my best English, glaring. Now she was doing the same infuriating thing to me, and I was determined to not let her get away with it. "And I may not know of your rights and customs here, _Your Majesty_, but I do know that a traitor must be judged fairly and not by the claims of his enemy. There are those, however shocking this may be, who might disagree with you," I spat sarcastically.

That thoughtful, near expressionless look on her face still had not changed. "Bold words, Son of Adam," she stated emotionlessly. "One must indeed by brave of heart to challenge the Queen of Narnia with that tone. Given some manners, you might do well under my rule: as second-in-command, perhaps? You seem ambitious enough to me, and clearly you possess courage and intelligence. Why serve your enemy?"

"I—" I was about to spit something back, but her last phrase caught me in my tracks and locked my tongue in an icy prison of its own. My enemy…it was true, wasn't it? The Pevensie children were British, the enemy of my people. It was by sheer luck they hadn't been killed by my allies in escaping the bombings I had helped participate in, and they clearly associated me with these bombings in a harsh light. The older children, at least. Lucy wasn't old enough to understand yet. I lapsed into an uneasy silence, unsure of what to do or say.

She smiled slightly, looking almost kindly at me. "Think about it." Then, turning to Aslan, her gaze hardened once more. "I will speak to you alone, lion," she said, imperious mask present once more. Aslan nodded quietly and turned to enter his tent, disappearing along with the White Witch and leaving me alone with my thoughts and my options, ideas that would continue to pester me even after the Witch's procession moved off with hope for Edmund and mysteries to ponder because Aslan's troubled expression when they had gone.

That night, I managed to sink into a fitful sleep, dreaming of dogfights in a plane with one engine against a horde of monsters. It was almost a relief, then, when a dark shadow fell across my face as Aslan paced past my tent and woke me late that night, though where he would lead the two girls who also followed him and I would only be a continuation of my nightmares.

* * *

((1)) Adolf Hitler, September 1939. Source—_The Usborne Introduction to the Second World War_ by Paul Dowswell. 

_A/N: Sorry for the long wait on the updates, all! Please don't injure me! I've been really busy, and FanFiction writing has unfortunately gone on the back shelf lately. I've been working on a story of novelish proportions about Heindrich, actually, about his briefly mentioned stint as a prisoner of war in England. Fun stuff. So here's my update on a sick day off, hope you enjoy it, all._

_Thank you again for patience and reviews: you, my readers, are fantastic people. I hug you all and give you cookies._

_**Hiro-tyre:** Oh, but who says I'm rewriting the story? No, I think Heindrich may not be content to follow an original storyline, and neither, I must say, am I. Thanks for the originality points. ;) Not quite sure where the idea came from, to tell you the truth, so I'm not sure I get too much credit._

_**Just Jill:** Hmm...we may just have to put him in the air...he would enjoy that immensely, I can imagine, though a fond fantasy I'm currently having of him in a plane is a bit of a stretch. Well, that's what gryphons are for, I suppose? And I really don't think the wolves were planning on eating him—scare him is probably a better verb, though they may have been contemplating it after a difficult swim in the river. Thanks for the compliment!_

_**ohcEEcho:** Feeling of war are STILL neutral after this chapter, I assure you! But here's definitely a bit of a twist, huh? And Heindrich will be so pleased to hear you like him, I'll send him out with chocolates, perhaps..._

_Heindrich: ((wanders out with box)) Um...who are these for?_

_Me: ((points)) The nice person over there who gave you the compliment. Say thank you._

_Heindrich: Er...are you sure she likes me? She's looking at this box and drooling..._

_**Morwen Pallanen: **Hi again! Glad you could make it back. I'm afraid I've given you even more suspense, bad of me, isn't it...sorry, but I'm stretching out as long as possible. I am ever so evil, aren't I? Hope this counts as keeping up with good work...say yes?_

_**amidnightkiss:** Oh, go on, cheer for the Nazi, he's not killing people, but of course you can withdraw your comments at any point. Think of him as the cool character, right? ;) Thanks much for your comments!_

_**Yva. J:** Glad you're liking it! I might have to take you up on the German thing, thanks so much...I'm actually signed up for a German class, but that's in the summer. ((wishes it were summer)) Well, I suppose I can content myself with Russian from my fencing teacher for a while. I'm glad you're liking the story! Let me know what you think of this addition._

_**Reinnos FireClaw Nemaste: **Hey there, pal, glad you're impressed...hope you still are? I need to drop by and RP with you, don't I...((beats self thoughtfully with pen cap))_

_**Stormsworder: **Wow, thank you very much! I appreciate your feedback immensely! This is very much your chapter, Aslan and Heindrich in the same room together for more than five minutes...we'll see what the lion really thinks of him soon enough, I suspect. And you know, best time to read is Keyboarding Class... ;)_

_**Deitra: **Okay, okay, I updated! Sorry for the wait!_

_Thanks again for your patience, all, hope you haven't abandoned me..._


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